


Waistband.

by WhatWldMrsWeasleyDo



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-07
Updated: 2014-11-07
Packaged: 2018-02-24 12:46:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2581931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatWldMrsWeasleyDo/pseuds/WhatWldMrsWeasleyDo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco is a professional model.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waistband.

Draco was a professional. All of his pouts were professional ones. Yes, really. He did not sulk when other models (who shall remain nameless but who could really do with working on their abs and losing a little round the thighs) got better jobs than he did. Just because that particular designer was the most successful this month, that didn't mean he would still be popular next month. And then **somebody's** portfolio would be looking a little out of date, wouldn't it?

As for having photographers who carelessly and selfishly decided to catch some kind of pox or something and send along a replacement ... well he wasn't going to risk getting wrinkles by frowning about that. He would just wait, practice his serene look, work on his hair and wait for whatever two-bit semi-amateur the agency decided to send along. And change management company tomorrow.

Draco certainly didn't swear when he was confronted by the abomination of a Weasel with a camera. That must have been a strangled cough you heard. Or someone else. Come to think of it, said Weasel had also done some swearing. Which was ridiculous, given the boost his career was going to be getting from being allowed to photograph the legendary Draco Malfoy.

He certainly was not sulking and "stomping around" and it was not his fault that the cable had come out of the flashy-thingy-poley-bobby. Draco was a professional. He knew cameras.

Once the camera was functioning and pointed at him, the instinct took over. He put his hands on his hips, his snarl on his lips and looked into the lens.

"Fuck! Yes!" The Weasel sounded impressed for once.

The flash fired rapidly. Draco shifted positions. 

Ron looked at him. "I don't suppose ..." then he swallowed, nervously.

"Spit it out! You have done this before? You photographer, me model. You tell me how to pose. I do it. Perfectly."

"Fine! Could you push down the waistband of your jeans, then?"

"What?"

"So we can show the top of your underpants."

"Um, I wasn't expecting ..." But professionals never get flustered. They always follow instructions. They do not have wardrobe malfunctions so whichever boxers he happened to be wearing that day were, of course, chosen with deliberation and taste and not the last clean ones, which his mother had given him for Christmas.

Slow and slinky, Draco wriggled his trousers down. He was so slinky, in fact, that Ron forgot to click the shutter for a while. The underwear came into view.

"Oh, nice! Nice blue! Nice polka dots. Are they by the same designer? Only I think he's going to sell out once these photos get published!"

Draco blushed. Prettily. Which was, of course deliberate.


End file.
